Heavy Lies the Crown
by Audience Participation
Summary: Dr. Hammond is a forensic linguist, puzzling out the linguistics of serial killers around the world. When she is rescued by Dr. Watson and Sherlock, she's faced with something she's been avoiding-connections. No romance.


**Heavy Lies The Crown**

**Chapter One**

Let me recount the facts as we know them. It seems like the most logical way to proceed at the very least. Maybe it could stave off insanity for a short time. One could only hope. First and foremost, my leg was bleeding profusely. I had been able to staunch it hours ago with my cardigan, but that could only do so much and now the light brown fabric was soaked through. It was a shame, too. That was my favorite jumper. I couldn't quite feel my toes and I was versed enough to know that this was not a good sign. Compounded with the likely head trauma and the sorry state of my breathing, I'd say that my chances were nil. Nevermind that. My gaze flickered toward the doorway.

There had been three of them: the monstrous thugs who had abducted me. Said something about how I was some "sorry bitch" who deserved my fate. Or some such. I was a bit distracted by the gun at my ear. Those can be a bit distracting, you know. Always had been. Even when I was younger, I was always taken with the way guns functioned. I could hear the clicking of it in my ear. The safety released. These men were serious.

Two of them were from Kent. Their accents were clear as a summer's day—minus the smog, mind you. I could hear it, actually. The brightened and voiced vowels, lengthened by history and the French. I could hear the dropped "h" sound, a trend that started some three hundred years prior to their brazen abduction. Oh and the way they way rounded their diphthongs in certain words. Very particular, Kentish. I could have placed them into a particular neighborhood, if I had paid more attention. Alas, the blow to my head rendered that notion inert. Damn it.

The last man—the wily and raucous leader—was clearly from Norfolk. It wasn't just his non-rhotic accent either. No, it was his glottal stops and particular grammar that clued me into his origin. He was dropping the 's' at the end of verbs, using 'that' in place of 'it,' and he was being particularly charming when he told me that I had a "good'un" when referring to my backside. The people of Norfolk would be so very proud, I had no doubt. As for me, I was suitably appalled for all of the second it took for him to slam the butt of his gun into the back of my head.

How did I get this cut in my leg?

I couldn't quite remember. Just flashes, running. I must have tried an escape. It was a little daring for my tastes, something that I couldn't quite seem myself attempting. I just wasn't the type to chance a gamble at speed. I'd always lose. If school yard fights had told me anything, it was that my legs were at such a disadvantage (even before injury) that the only option was usually to stand and fight. Often, too often, that sort of tactic didn't end well…for me. No, it seemed like no matter how this pie was sliced, I was screwed.

Tiredly, I rolled my head to the side and looked toward the doorway. Steal and steal. No way to break through. No way to get out. Trapped. It had been the same for hours. It wasn't as if I could magically free myself by will alone. Things never happened that way. If so, it would have been much easier to—Well, that was for another time.

The bastards took my mobile, muttering something about how I would ruin all the plans.

Two days?

Three?

I don't know. Time didn't really seem to pass in that place. Every eight to ten hours, one of the Kents would shove a pack of crushed crackers through the space under the door. By the third day, I was too weak to crawl across the room. Hunger and blood loss will do that, you know. Did do that—rendered me useless, silent. Oh, but the deliriousness was taking firm hold over me. My head was aching, throbbing. I could almost forget my torn leg, but the occasional tingle of hurt would crawl up into my hips, winding around my thighs, and I couldn't forget. Never forget. Right, never forget. Geez, how could I forget?

Closing my eyes, I leaned my head tiredly against the concrete wall. My heart was fluttering in my chest, pitter-pattering unevenly as my body fought to maintain consciousness. Anyway, how long had it been now? Eight or nine hours? They must have given up or decided that the best way to manipulate me was by slow and continuous torture. And it was a good, solid theory. If I didn't falter under the physical kind, then the mental must work twice as well. Or was it torture? I couldn't quite remember anymore. Had I been tortured or kidnapped? Maybe tortured and kidnapped. Semantics. The _and _seemed to work nicely, too nicely. I had been tortured, something I never thought…Oh, but who ever thinks that they will be victims?

I am no victim. No, not me. I am powerful and safe with my bleeding leg and my weakened body.

I am...dying, probably.

There's a clacking sound somewhere nearby, metallic and haunting. Chilling. Chills. I liked the feeling, now that I could really admit it. I liked being cold. Mother could never understand that, I don't think. Always hated the way I would push off the covers at night and the way I would walk into snow with no mittens. The concrete was cold. I was cold. The air was cold and damp. And I was going to die: cold and alone. Just like how I lived, I think. Maybe a tad too poetic for me.

That's when something brushed my cheek—warmer than a summer wind. Waxing far too poetic. Yeah, I was definitely dying.

My eyes felt heavy and I could barely work up the strength to open them, but I was nothing if not determined. In the haze and blur, I could see someone backlit by the overhead light. There seemed to be a halo of gold hair around his head and his mouth was moving, opening and closing with the rhythm of language. I knew nothing better than that: language. As if surfacing from the water of a pool, I could hear sounds again. I could hear clangs and clacks and voices—a voice, one voice. It was soothing, simple and comforting. He was touching my face, my neck, my hands. He was speaking constant words of reassurance.

"You'll be okay. You'll be okay. Keep breathing now. Keep breathing."

Well, if he said to do it: I'd do it. I took a breath. Then another. And another still.

"There you go," he murmured. He was pulling off his coat and I felt a pang of worry that he would be cold. It seemed irrational, but the thought occurred to me nonetheless. "That's it. Just keep breathing. In and out." His attention turned elsewhere, over his shoulder and his voice rose louder than the calming rumble. "Sherlock! She's alive! She's in here!" My attention wavered and so did my breathing. "Steady now, steady. You're alright. There's an ambulance on the way. I'm a doctor. I can help. Shh…"

A face appeared then over his shoulder, expressionless in the face of my gore. His eyes connected with mine and I couldn't find the strength to do anything other than look at him, them. The blond was preoccupied trying to mend my still-bleeding (when it had started bleeding again, I couldn't say) leg with delicate movements befitting a doctor or an angel. The brunette, however, was looking at me as if I were some sort of decipherable puzzle. Or perhaps I was the cipher itself. "Where? You must know where."

Where what?

"Where have they gone? The men who took you, Dr. Hammond. Where are they?" His voice was so urgent and so desperate. I could barely string thoughts together coherently, much less reason my way through the hideout location. It was much too difficult and I was much too— "They've taken a girl. She is fifteen. This is the only chance she has. Tell me where. they. are." The deep voice prompted and I was forced to push past my pain and the encroaching exhaustion that threatened to overcome me. "They will do to her what they have done to you, Dr. Hammond. You have to stop them. Tell me now. Tell me!"

To her...

A young girl couldn't deal with all this. She shouldn't have to...Not if I could stop it, no. I couldn't allow it.

"Sherlock—"

Unable to speak, I deliberately glanced to the right and tried to make my movement as obvious as possible. The brunette immediately understood and jumped up from his kneeling position to rip a map off the wall, yanking it down to lay it on the floor under my hand. I struggled, my arm weighing a thousand tons against the gravity and the coolness. Finally, my fingers crawled their way to rest over Norfolk. Not just Norfolk though, but King's Lynn. I somehow found the strength to tap my finger over the words, raising my eyes from the map to the eyes of the brunette. Sherlock, his name was. They had fled to King's Lynn, the leader's home town. There was no doubt.

"I know where they are," he stated. I felt my eyes closing. The blood loss was too much. I was too weak to keep fighting. However, maybe now they could find that girl—save her, if possible. Maybe she wouldn't have to suffer like me. Maybe. Well, I had to hope. Everything started to tingle, my chest humming with energy and fear. "John, stay with her." For a moment, my eyes opened and I looked up toward the haloed blond again. He was speaking to me, but my hearing had tunneled. There was panic in his face, fear for me and my life. The corners of my lips tilted upward, even as I felt myself slipping. He was telling me to fight. What a kind man.

Everything went dark.

* * *

There he was again—sleeping in the chair by my bed. It was actually remarkable, the amount of care that man could show to a person he barely knew. When I had first awoken, only a few scant seconds as I was being wheeled into emergency, he was right there hovering over me. He had been shouting things, commands and orders. A doctor, one could see that easily. Then, I was unconscious again. I had been lost for a short time, in the darkness that lingered between life and death. I couldn't say for how long. I awoke several times after that, only seconds in the conscious realm. Each time, he was sleeping in that chair with his chin resting on his chest. Maybe he was just the remarkably kind sort. I couldn't say. I wasn't quite with it enough to figure it out.

"Are you awake?" The sound seemed to come out of a tunnel. My attention refocused on a petite woman with lovely brown hair—a nurse by her garb, light blue and sky. She was on the other side of my bed, a small smile on her face. "You've been here for three days. Severely dehydrated and lost quite a bit of blood. Near death there for a time." She was from Sussex and only moved to London within the past five years. My lips felt dry. My brows pulled together in question, gaze flickering to the left every few moments. He was still asleep. Must have been exhausted. "Dr. Watson has not left your side since you arrived. Good man, that one."

I wanted to ask why. Good man or not, it didn't make sense for him to stay for so long. Kind sort or no, people always had their lives to get on with. Who cared about some broad that was bedridden in some hospital? Aside from the fact that I had been tortured to within an inch of my life and likely would never walk the same again, I was just some average Nobody who no one noticed. That was the way I liked it, until those three men clattered their way into my flat in Surrey. After that, what could I do but be a name on the nighttime news?

"I'll tell the doctor you're awake, shall I?" She was so pleasant. I needed to make sure to thank her whenever I could speak again, whenever this blasted thing was gone from my face. She was gone the next instant. My head was hurting and I could barely think of anything except how happy I was to be alive.

Funny thing, that. Death, I mean. It was so peaceful, but then I kept thinking about the strangest things. How much I would miss my flat. How much I loved the run-down Chinese takeaway near home. How I would miss my brother. And my mother. And my father. Lord help me, how I couldn't let Dr. Carroway teach my lazily brilliant students. Maybe I had always envisioned death to be something else, but that's all it was. Regrets, I suppose. There had been other things in the darkness, but I didn't dare think on them. The regrets were enough to spur me into life. I shuddered to think what the guilt would do with death.

There was a groan to my left and I turned my head only slightly to see his eyes flicker open. He sat up immediately, back straight and arms at his sides. My mouth felt dry. I wanted the tube out. I could breathe on my own, no doubt. His attention immediately found my face and I tried to smile. It seemed to be more of a grimace, but effort does count. He was on his feet in an instant, that Dr. Watson. Worriedly, he huddled over me.

"Dr. Hammond, you're awake! It's a miracle. Honestly, it is. I'll just go—" Though I was weak, I found the ability to shake my head only slightly. He froze and I glanced toward the doorway where the nurse was speaking to the doctor. His mouth curved into a bright smile and I felt something warm in my right hand. He was holding it, I realized after a few moments. "Should have suspected that you've been awake for some time. They'd never wake me. I haven't gotten much sleep, you know." Somehow I got that feeling. "I contacted your parents. Your brother will be here tomorrow. Patrick. Very nice man."

Relief coursed through me. Of course, I could always count on Patrick whenever things got bad. No matter if I was sixteen (and drunk) or thirty-three (and half-dead), Patrick always stood in the wings waiting to jump in whenever I needed saving. And, honestly, after his little episode in Peru last year, he owed me nothing less than a week of caretaking. At the moment, I was more than willing to collect. Glancing at Dr. Watson, I could see the bags under his eyes and the slightest shake in his hands. He was utterly exhausted. As easily as I could, I gestured toward the door. It was just the slight movement of my hand and a flick of the eyes.

His head shook immediately. "No, no. I'm staying until you are off the ventilator." Well, that was just exceedingly noble. Why though? Why was he determined to stay with me like this? His lips pursed together and he crossed his arms over his jumper. "When you bring someone back from the dead, you tend to grow a little attached." Apparently, he could read minds as well. His fingers tightened around mine as he settled back down into his chair. "Nevermind that, we got the men. Or Sherlock did. They were in King's Lynn, a warehouse on the south of the city. You were the reason Darcy Reynolds survived. An hour later and…Well, best not to think on it. She's already been seen and released." He was a talker, I realized. That, or he was trying to keep my mind off the tube in my throat. Probably the latter if he was any kind of medical doctor. "It's really something. Your leg was broken in three places with one compound fracture. Ah, but nevermind that. I saw that you're a professor over at University College. Could never find it in me to teach. Not much the patience for it, though now maybe I could. I deal with enough as it is though."

Yes, he was definitely trying to keep me distracted and it was working far too well. His face was so animated and his eyes seemed to dance. Waxing poetic again, damn it. Still I couldn't find myself wrong. He seemed to be genuine in everything he was saying and that fact alone was nigh unbelievable to me. There was no sign on insincerity, no discourse markers that indicated he was ready to leave. No, instead he was just as pleased to sit in that wholly uncomfortable chair and talk until the sun rose or fell. At that thought, I glanced around for a clock.

"Four in the morning."

"Sherlock!" Dr. Watson was on his feet again. "Is that blood? Where did you come from? Did you just get back?"

I could see another figure in the dimness of the room near the doorway he had likely just entered from. I couldn't see whatever blood the good doctor had likely been referring to. Instead, all I could see was a head of bushy hair and sharp shoulders. Giving up on seeing for the moment, I closed my eyes and listened. It was what I was best at, after all. Listening.

"Yes. Norfolk. Yes."

Quick. Succinct. Honest. This Sherlock character did not mess around and—from what I could tell—was either dog-tired or angered about something or other. It was in the lilt of his voice, or lack thereof. While John held a very soothing sort of timbre, this man was in possession of an aristocratic baritone. I could detect some Sussex mixed with…Kensington? Very posh and highly educated. His family was likely well-off, enough so that he could be sent off to school for most of the year. Christmases and holidays at home in Kensington. John, likewise, was from Hampshire, by my reckoning. He had a sinus infection, too.

"Do stop analyzing our language, Miss Hammond. It is irritating. Where we are from is not a big secret and anyone can figure it with a small amount of thought."

My brows rose and I watched as he stepped into the light. His chin was parallel to the floor. He refused to look down at me. Very well, then I would not look up at him. Instead, I focused my eyes on Dr. Watson. He was watching the exchange with a stunned expression, uncomprehending of the linguistic maneuvers that were being used. I wished badly that I could talk back, to talk to this man who refused to let go of my hand. I couldn't just tell where they were from, I wanted to say. I could tell him that he had something stuck in his back two molars on the right side. Either that, or he had lost a tooth during a brawl of some kind. He didn't seem the brawling sort, so likely a bit of food or some such. Dr. Watson made a sound in his throat and I glanced to his eyes.

"This is Sherlock, by the way."

I didn't look in the other man's direction, instead resting my head back against the pillow again. I wanted someone to brush my hair from my face. It was getting on my nerves. Irritating. Nevertheless, I forced myself to relax and listen to the exchange. If the brunette was as perceptive as he seemed, then he would know I was listening. The brunette was irritating, too. Arrogant. Pompous. I could tell by the way he spoke, the way he formed his sentences. Always centered around "I" and all that he did was grand and smart and remarkable. Dr. Watson meanwhile placed all of his sentences in relation to someone else. I decided then. I was quite charmed to meet Dr. Watson. His companion? Well, his name was Sherlock and that was about as far as I cared.

* * *

Author's Section:

A new fanfiction. A new fandom. A new identity. I wanted to start a Sherlock fic for a while and I always tend to write OC-fics. This particular fic is just a trial run of a character that I have in mind. I would greatly appreciate any feedback that can be offered, so please leave me a review and let me now your thoughts so far. Thank you!


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